


Like Clockwork

by Dominion_of_Dust1886



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Adam's got issues, Augmentations (Deus Ex), Building things, Clockpunk, Clocks, Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, Cyborg Adam Jensen, Cyborgs, Dammit Jim I'm not a doctor, Drinking, Gen, I play one on tv, Malik cooks more than just dialing for takeout, Medical Examination, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24254752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominion_of_Dust1886/pseuds/Dominion_of_Dust1886
Summary: Aug recovery isn't pleasant for anyone,  especially for Adam "I didn't ask for this" Jensen.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Like Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Been some time!
> 
> With recent events, I've been given the opportunity to replay some of the games I had put off. This time round was Deus Ex, which I forgot was simply awesome! Silly me for not finishing the first time.
> 
> This was intended to be a one chapter thing, but I had to split up before AO3 deletes it. Editing will more than likely happen.

_Alright, flex your index finger...good. Hmm, looks like the calibration is off on the wrist movement._   
_The rotors aren't sticking, are they? A bit of WD-40 usually takes care of that. Although the teflon coating shouldn't stick too much._   
_Phantom limb pain is common, Mr. Jensen. The prescription painkillers are for you to take if the pain is too much._

Adam sighed heavily, shutting his eyes behind his eye shields against the glare of the sun that shown on the helipad. The whir of the lenses and plastic retina adjusting still alien.

The late summer sun should have been appealing to him as it meant he could walk the city streets without his usual trenchcoat. Take Kubrick to the local dog park that wasn't too far from his apartment. Even stop by the overly expensive and busy hipster coffee shop for a danish that he recently discovered was damn tasty. 

But that was barely a month ago before...before the incident at Sarif Industries. Before Meg was murdered and before he became more machine than human. 

A full inhale of breath he took was much too clean; the filters in his lungs blocking out most of the pollution that rose to the helipad landing fifteen stories up at the LIMB Clinic. It was fresher than he remembered Detroit; a scent of the only home he really knew. Now?

Well, that was different. 

His left shoulder flared in renewed pain, a reminder to him of what used to be flesh, bone, blood and plasma. Not carbon fiber, plastic, steel, wires and lubricant. 

The extensive surgeries he undergone would, more than likely, have killed others. But Adam Jensen -his mouth turned downwards- wasn't like others. He wasn't like any of the other augmented humans either as his boss made sure that Adam was the best in evolved humans to date. David Sarif knew his investment in his head of security was testament to what can be done to the human body. Adam Jensen, free walking advertisement for Sarif Industries into what you have the potential to be. What can be built onto your skeleton for a fee of the credit chip.

 _Fuck_ , Adam rotated the sore shoulder.

"Malik, you almost here?" He connected the call to Faridah as he began to pace the deck.

"Just passing over Beacon Park," she informed him.

His ears, beyond the cochlear implant deep inside his ear canal, picked out the sound of the aircraft's thrusters approaching. It swelled before he caught sight of the sleek metal hull weaving between the buildings to hover above him. Those plastic orbs focused on the VTOL slowly descend onto the designated heliport landing, making the landing with barely a thud.

His infolink beeped, eyes darting towards the HUD's corner on his mirrored shields. He almost growled as Sarif's profile picture winked onto the glass. Adam dismissed the call, climbing into the passenger cabin of the craft as Malik took her VTOL up again. 

"How ya doin', Jensen?" Malik's voice filtered in.

He shrugged, "fine, I guess. Normal, like the doctors say."

"That's good. Yeah, boss," a pause, "he is...yeah. I'll ask; isn't your infolink working?"

"Working fine."

"Didn't you get a call from Sarif?"

"I did," of course Sarif wants to talk. "Not much in the mood to talk."

"Gotcha."

 _Good ol' Malik_ , he heard her tell their boss a minuscule fib, call him later. Stressing to give him some time to rest at least until tomorrow. 

If Sarif wanted to know how he was doing, he could give the doctors a call as he was the primary contact. Logical data, forms, scripts etc he wanted it all, he could have it. Adam didn't give much of a shit as of the moment and tried to avoid his boss as much as he could right now. The CEO didn't quite understand how boundaries worked; Adam was grieving not just the loss of who he was, but that of Megan Reed's murder, the change of his apartment, the loss of Kubrick, being looked at in envy or disgust, answering awkward questions...

A fuck ton of things. 

He pressed a carbon fiber thumb between his eyebrows, a little harder than he should. The bruises will be gone by the time he gets to the apartment. The Sentinel taking care of that minor injury in mere seconds. 

Five minutes and they arrived at the Chrion Building, cutting the walk time for Adam by twenty minutes. He was a bit relieved as he caught attention from others waiting for augmentation or the slowly growing Purity First protestors that were gaining numbers again outside the LIMB Clinic.

Still, as his mind niggled on the fact, he wouldn't be in this position if he didn't have that contract upon employment in the company.

A bit of confinement inside the swanky apartment Sarif Industries paid for during his medical leave was just what he craved right now. Maybe finish off the whiskey he was soaking in through his stomach as of late. Did a hell of a better job than the super dose of pain medication he was on. Still gave him quite a hangover that he'd nearly caused permanent injury to himself when trying to take a piss. Took more than a few seconds for the Sentinel to numb that embarrassing action.

"Earth to Jensen, you there?"

Adam blinked at the brunette, an amused look gracing her features. She had the passenger door open to the buildings rooftop. The whirlwind of air whipping her hair, his coat.

They had known each other for a few years, Malik having been a close friend of Megan's since their childhood days. They exchanged plenty of conversations between that of work life and personal. She had a knack for picking up on his snark and dry humor, bantering in the downtimes between flights for the boss. Talking about the latest sporting events, sometimes catching a coffee in the cafeteria when most employees were leaving for the night as they spoke of the past.

Had Adam been susceptible to blushing like Meg was, he would be bright red. His background in SWAT rubbed that out easily as he returned it with a stillness only augs could pull off.

"Why'd you turn off the bird?" Adam asks.

She shrugs, "taking an early break before I gotta take the boss to New York. Don't worry-" she holds up a hand when his brows narrow, "-security detail is beyond what you're thinking."

"No, I'm confused as to why you're taking a break here?"

Malik crosses her arms, "my apartment's two floors below yours. A perk, I guess."

Adam removes himself from the VTOL, "sure. One with a helipad."

"Got that right. But anyways, I'm gonna grab a shower. I'll stop by with lunch, if you're interested."

Food, he remembers, is intrical for his recovery as his stomach rumbles at the thought, "yeah, I'll leave the door open."

"Alright. Be by in half an hour." She lead the way to the roof access. 

Leaving Adam on his floor, Malik took the elevator down as he went to his apartment. 

**_~Welcome home, Adam~_ **

It still unnerved him with the AI of the building, his other apartment never greeted him. Kubrick would bound over from-

His shoulders slumped, carefully removing his trenchcoat and tossing it haphazardly onto the couch beyond the stairs. He dropped heavily onto the cushions, eyes on the glass screen of the giant TV set into the wall.

He turned it on, only to be greeted by the news of Sarif Industries and the massacre. The monotonus tone of Eliza Cassan describing the events in judicious detail. It went back off just as quickly.

His hands carded through his dark locks, resting on the back of his neck. His palm grazing over the covered hexagonal depression above his left brow, convenience of the bullet into his brain; another hidden port should his grey matter need adjusting in case of an EMP blast. His legs began aching as he bounced them a few times. It jumpstarted the rest of them in a cacophony of agony. All the pains blurred together as if he were hit by a police robot.

 _Normal. The aches are normal,_ the doctors assured him. _Trauma of this extent is **normal**._

He remains that way until Malik returns, a paper bag in one hand and a medium wine box in the other. Her flight suit unzipped, the arms tied around her waist. A vintage designer Rolling Stone concert tee covered her torso.

"Takeout and wine?" He smirked behind the pain. 

"Har har. Nope." She hoists the bag, "chicken sandwiches in this one."

Adam points at the box, "and that?"

"Later. Let's eat," she places the bag on the coffee table, next to a well oiled combat rifle.

The box was left on the desk against the window. She also had the foresight to shake two of the super script meds out of the jar on the table. 

"It's gonna make me into a junkie," Adam tries to reason with her, hating the fuzz the scripts gave him as a side effect. 

"A few pills won't," Malik takes his arm (the sensors in the polyfiber skin alerting of human contact), slapping them into his palm, "and you can, just not on an empty stomach. And drink something besides _booze_."

A bottle of water was dropped into his lap as she sat beside him, opening her own sandwich from the wax paper. 

He hesitated before grabbing ahold of the wrapped sandwich, the polished gunmetal black fingers sinking into the soft bread. The servos pulled back slightly as they adjust to the give. They still practically squashed where they touched the food, the crinkle and rip of wax paper indicated it easily. It was enough to have Adam huff an irritated breath through his nose.

Couldn't even _eat_ without being reminded of the augs.

Still, he took a tentative bite; fresh bread, chicken, lettuce, tomato, jalepeno mayo filled his mouth. The food helped tremendously as Adam scarfed it down, taking another sandwich as Malik offered it silently. It seemed like weeks since he had proper food besides cheap cereal, whiskey and cigarettes. And as reluctant as he was, Adam tossed the pills back then guzzled the water, somewhat glad he felt no burn of alcohol. 

"Good boy," Malik began to open the box, "now, how's your therapy going?"

" _Psh_ ," he slumped, "same shit. Still can't find a way to stop overthinking these things when I want to. Think I got it then I break something."

He glances down at the his black limbs, flexing the fingers, hearing the servos adjusting in the quiet of the apartment. The countless hours of therapy with the dangerous new augmented arms designed by David Sarif himself. Capable to bust through walls and toss heavy objects once the Praxis deemed him competent. The nano blades, just hidden beneath the moulded muscle, sharp enough to slice 1/2 inch steel like cheap cardboard. Surprised the hell out of him when it shot through the floor in the infirmary.

"You didn't do too bad with the water bottle," the aforementioned thing was only slightly misshapen to Adam's hand, although the cap didn't survive as it was laying flattened on the table. 

He still huffed in annoyance. 

"Common thing for augmented, take it from experience," she waves at herself, although her augs are under her skin, "but there's other ways to get around that."

Another box was removed from the one she carried in, albeit this one was made of wood with brass hinges and nails. About the length of Adam's arm, he had no clue what was in there. 

"Now, this you might like." She opened it.  
Inside were small wood handled tools, screwdrivers with tiny steel heads, a jeweler's loupe, and carefully separated gears and pieces of broken down clock parts filled in the gaps.

"My grandfather was a clock builder when he was alive," Malik began, "owned a shop in Hengsha for about thirty years."

Adam picked up a brass gear, the sensors on his outside layer of skin firing the feel of it to his brain.

"I remember the place had a particular smell of oil and old wood. Creaked on certain points in the floor," Malik provides, "but when he died, I was just getting my augs and needed to practice coordination. I tinkered with some, and helped me get my footing."

He ran his thumb over the edge of the gear, the feedback stimulating. Replacing it, he reached for a partially assembled desktop clock insides. It beheld a busted mainspring, the flat metal arched elegantly in gradual eclipses, the face dirty and missing a scrolled hand. A paper face was pasted on the front, the old script of 'Ward's Old Reliable 8 Day' still visible. 

"Interesting," Adam set the piece down. "Did it help?"

She nods, eating the last of her sandwich, "my hand-eye coordination is faster, as I was able to track some of the movements in my grandpa's mantel clock."

Adam hummed, leaning back into the cushions, "thanks, but it's your grandpa's legacy. Don't you want it?"

"You are _borrowing_ it. 'Sides, it's sitting unused and I thought it could help you out."

"Why?" He said, mood souring, "I don't know why you care about what happens to me."

The flippant way he spoke had taken the pilot by surprise, facing him head on. She lifted a placilitading hand, a gesture of wait and listen. 

"Now, Jensen-"

"I didn't ask for this," he flings his hands about him, the move jerky yet inhumanly fast, knocking over the broken clock, "I didn't want to be auged! I had no choice!"

"I know."

"You DON'T, MALIK!" Adam was on his feet, his rage echoing in the air, "you have no FUCKING CLUE to what I'm dealing with!"

"Adam-"

"Meg's DEAD! She's DEAD! I wasn't fast enough to stop them from killing all those people! A waste of what I am! And I'm not even ME anymore! Fucking wires, tubes and for what? T-to be Sarif's twist on Frankenstein's monster? They didn't have to save me, with the shit job I did! They should have just left me to die in the lab!"

_**CRACK!!!** _

Her hand wasn't particularly large nor was the slap all that painful, but Adam's head still swung in the direction it was aimed. His jaw clenched as his internal systems beeped at his rapid heartbeat, the beginnings of a full blown panic attack stopped by a single slap.   
His eyes slid to look at the woman before him. Her jaw set, hand held in it's arch of her slap. Expression was stony except for the moisture that gathered in her brown eyes. 

"Don't ever say that," Malik's voice was low, threatening in its calmness, arm dropping to her side, "don't ever wish to be dead too."

She turned toward the window, her reflection showing her wipe away the frustrated tears. Adam stayed silent, pivoting to face her as she watched the Detroit skyline. It had begun to rain, the drops rolling down the surface. Her shoulders hitching up and down with her taking control of her own outburst, something he hadn't had before the slap.

"Ok. You're right, you had no say in what happened. You got the shit end of the bargain and now are something you never wanted. You're hurting and exhausted, I get that. And sure, Sarif pulled a dick move on you with the contract," Malik turned to him again, no sign of anger in her, "but I won't see Megan, my best friend, ever again. If it wasn't for that fucking contract of Sarif's, I'd be dealing with TWO dead friends right now."

That was a more effective slap, only to Adam's ego that had him take a step back. He had nothing.

She sniffed, swiping her hand across her nose.

"I," Adam snapped his mouth closed, what could he say? "Malik-"

"I was one of the first people to find you, did you know that?" She leaned on the desk, "found you broken and bleeding, yet still alive. Hanging on like the stubborn asshole you always were, even with a fucking bullet in your head."

He takes a tentative half step towards her, scared she might bolt for the door if he got closer. Scared he might himself. 

She doesn't, but reaches for his right arm. Hesitantly, Adam complies. She turns the limb about in her light touch, fingers grazing over moulded steel, fiber coated sensors pinging at the touch. 

"I know nothing about fixing people, I fly a fucking plane. All I could do was hold your hand and keep talking. You were in bad shape, Jensen. There was so much blood. Yet you squeezed my hand when I said."

It was a grey area, Adam remembered the attack, the pain, the bullet; but also the warmth of a hand in his. The voice telling him to stay, to hang on, help was coming.

"When I saw what was...done to you, well..." she shrugs, "I almost gave him my resignation."

Him. Sarif.

Her touch lingers on his bicep before dropping; he missed that. The intimate sensation of another living being. 

"How long before he would do the same to the rest of us? Have us undergo unnecessary surgery to how he sees his vision of the company?" Her eyes bore into his.

He couldn't deny that simple question on how far David Sarif would and could go had turned about his mind these few months. With his recovery barely even a scratch through, Adam dwelled on too much when the alcohol wasn't present. 

"I," he closed his mouth, trying again, "I guess he could just replace us with robots that wouldn't give two shit's about replacing a limb."

She blinked before chuckling. Adam's lip quirked upwards. 

"Did you just make a joke?" She asks. 

"It was a bad one," Adam admits.

She snorts, "bad dad jokes. Damn, my brother would have a field day with it."

The tension ceased between them, the rain ebbing into a dreary mist. The air growing colder quickly with the front snaking into the city. Adam switched on the TV to a random sports channel as Malik took the rest of the tools out of the box. The mechanism he knocked down she placed in the very center of the desk. 

Adam, slouching on the couch, barely felt anything in his limbs; fingertips tracing patterns into the fabric. The faucet in the kitchen was turned on, Malik deciding his lack of keeping the apartment somewhat clean was invitation to do it. His bachelor living quarters needed some sort of order besides wrecked.

This was the closest to relaxed he'd been since... damn, he couldn't remember. Maybe on lazy Sunday mornings with Meg, when he didn't have to get out to do the rounds at Sarif Industries. Kubrick, the border collie of theirs, nestled between them whining for a walk or to play. 

"..."

He blinked, lids growing heavy from the meds, "what?"

Malik sat down before him, zipping the flight suit up, "I said I'm gonna head out. You gonna be okay?"

He nods, "thanks, Malik."

"Get some rest," she stood up, patting his shoulder, "I'll check on you after New York, kay?"

"Mmmkay," he tries to stand, his toes wiggled instead.

Malik dimmed the lights from the control panel, "sleep it off, Jensen."

Sleep sounded good. Needed. Away from the shit. 

Oblivion suited him just fine.

-*-*-*-*-*-

_..._

_..._

_...ad..._

_...mmm..._

_...Adam..._

"Meg?"

_...Adam..._

Her voice..."Megan?"

_...come..._

"Meg? Talk to me, Meg."

 _Black...black...Adam...so m_ _uch black..._

"Meg!" He's running towards the voice, "Megan!"

_Don't!_

Then she's there...just as he last saw her the night of her murder. Not a blemish on her pale skin, rust colored hair swept in her usual updo. Even her gray coat was pressed recently, the lines crisp in the light coming from who knew where. 

Why they decided to break up with each other, Adam didn't know. Not when she was here, alive, her usual smirk at his surprise. She took a step, hand reaching to him. He raises his own, his actual hand, to take hers.

_Adam..._

"Meg. Fuck Meg-"

_Don't..._

He's thrown back, head thrown back to cause whiplash. She is fading beyond his vision as he reaches, fighting against the pull.

Then, before he could react, Adam is unable to move. His eyes dart back and forth, body supine on a hard surface, a weight pressing on his chest. He can't speak.

Light suddenly blinds him, excited voices droning, buzzing as if in a hornet's nest. 

"Hurry! We don't have much time!" Someone on his left spoke. "Damn, how thick was that glass?"

"Get the other arm prepped," another said, "Mr. Sarif said to go ahead with the augmentation."

 _What?_ Adam thinks, fighting for release.

"How far up?"

"To the shoulder, no three quarter replacement. Same with the legs."

Adam shook, eyes darting at the voices he could not see, could not fight. The drone of a bone saw revved. 

_Shh_ , Meg leaned over him, _don't, Adam. Let it happen._

"Those eyes, too."

Something hovered over Megan, the flexation of a med bot. A long needle on the end, like that of a scorpion ready to strike. 

Eyes wide, he struggles.

 _For the greater good,_ Megan's eyes darkened against the light, _enlightenment is the way forward, Adam..._

_Adam..._

_Adammmm..._

"NO!!!"

He bolted upright, heart racing, filling his ears with his heavy breath. HUD flaring to life in blinding orange warnings. He was in the apartment, the dimness filtering through the window showed it was late. 

He tried to lift his hand, only to meet resistance. Looking down, he saw the nano blades had retracted, sinking into the cushion. Foam and ripped fabric gathered around the sleek black metal. 

The sound of the bone saw rattling in through his addled brain, the tearing of fabric...

Adam gagged, bolting off the couch to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. 

More warnings flash, cutting off even his gag reflex with suppressants for nausea that had been implanted in him with his release. The taste of bile didn't reach his tongue.

He still tries to heave before standing, catching his reflection in the mirror. 

Matte black reinforced fiber defined manufactured arms, the rods and planes glowed in the low lit room. The ports on his chest round, ugly scars similar to bullet holes. The flesh surrounding it pink and raw, another normal side effect to dissipate a few more weeks from now. And the implants on his cheekbones that helped to slide the eye shields foreign, daily reminders he couldn't hide.

The mirror spiderwebs under his fist before he realizes his action. A single thought he subconsciously made and his artificial limb done the rest. 

It was easy. So very easy for them to act and react when he didn't want to. 

He slowly pulls his hand away. The shattered glass caught between the plating fell onto the sink like fine powder. Larger pieces pinged as they dislodged from the mirror. 

_Broken. Just like you._


End file.
